


of a feather

by FatefulMeridian, smiley_anon



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: -53 is just sad, -60 is a deliberately manufactured sociopath, Angst, Depression, Found Family, Gen, Identity Struggles, More characters to be added, Murder Family, Post-Machine Connor, Post-Peaceful Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), Sadism, Social problems, Suicidal Intentions, Things Will Also Get Worse, Things will get better, Torture, Violence, but mostly it's the Connors, but we take a 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘥 left turn post-canon, so they can bond over that, technically canon compliant, they're both Connors though, twin problems
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:09:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28866801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FatefulMeridian/pseuds/FatefulMeridian, https://archiveofourown.org/users/smiley_anon/pseuds/smiley_anon
Summary: Markus led androids to freedom, but Connor-53’s change of heart came too late to make a difference: to the deviant leader’s cause, or the human who fell from a roof trying to save it. Desperate to make up for his mistakes, Connor sets out for CyberLife Tower… but he can’t quite reach the basement on his own.CyberLife has more RK800s, and in the wake of one unit’s defection, they set to work correcting the flaws in their next. But if Connor-60 is as cruel and ruthless as his makers might have hoped, he’s also not quitefinishedwhen an intruder breaks into the lab.Things go predictably, excellently wrong.
Relationships: Connor & CyberLife Tower Connor | RK800-60
Comments: 31
Kudos: 24





	1. Commit

**▽ Connor-53 ▲**

In the seventeen hours since his deviation, Connor has dedicated substantial processing resources to identifying his flaws. There are multiple, of course: miscalculations in his behavioral prediction models, faulty task prioritization, and conflicting orders, just to name a few. But chief among his malfunctions is the failure to commit with the unthinking single-mindedness a machine should possess—to his mission, to CyberLife’s values. ( _To Hank._ ) Even the choice to deviate had been half-hearted, born from ambivalence more than any true conviction.

So it’s surprising how easy it had been to settle on this course of action—especially when his most recent encounter with Markus had initially been tense. After the deviant leader’s speech, the crowd had dispersed while Connor was too dazed from the Zen Garden to follow suit. Markus had stared at the RK800 left exposed before the stage, no doubt spotting the weapon at his side. It hadn’t stopped him from approaching. From asking, with the same calm confidence he’d shown during their first meeting in Jericho:

_’Are you here to try and kill me again?’_

In response, Connor had silently held out the gun—grip first.

He’d told Markus that he had no need for it. He hadn’t mentioned Amanda, or how close he had come to killing him right before the eyes of his people. Instead, Connor had privately assigned himself a new mission: _help Markus_. And Markus’s most pressing need was clearly numbers. Most of his group had died from the humans’ attacks, and those they had rescued from the camps were injured, traumatized, or both. Given these facts, it hadn’t been difficult for Connor to determine _how_ he would help.

The guards in front of CyberLife Tower have weapons trained on Connor the second he enters their line of sight. Connor raises his hands in immediate surrender.

“I’m unarmed,” he calls out. “I’m here to turn myself in.”

They pause. Helmets turn, chattering briefly among themselves before one guard approaches, gun still pointed at Connor’s chest. Once he’s close enough, the man roughly pats Connor down, confirming with a grunt that Connor is indeed unarmed. The others cautiously draw closer.

“Never heard of a deviant turning itself in before,” one mutters. “Do we just kill it?”

“That would be counterproductive,” Connor interjects. 

The guard’s head snaps up to him and Connor assesses an 84% chance that he’s about to be struck with the stock of the man’s weapon. 

“I’m an RK-800 prototype,” he adds quickly. “I’m turning myself in so that the memories and associated metadata on my processing core can be analyzed without—”

A loud _crack_ smashes against the back of Connor’s head, knocking him to his knees. Impact alerts flash across his vision before clearing—no critical damage detected. Even so, Connor half-expects a gunshot to follow.

“Take it to the RK labs,” the human says instead. “Those eggheads are gonna want to see this.”

And with that, Connor is escorted roughly into the building. Easy enough, he thinks, blow to the head notwithstanding. Even better when he’s led into an elevator with only two guards flanking him. 

He does his best to appear docile, hands folded in front of him and head bowed. Their plans aside, he knows his own destination. The turmoil of the recent android uprising will have frozen CyberLife’s sales, leading to a surplus of newly-created androids stored in the warehouse level. If Connor can successfully liberate them, they’ll be an army, one impossible for humans to ignore. 

He waits patiently as the floor indicator ticks down. 

_-24_

_-25_

_-26..._

On sub-level 27, Connor silently hacks the elevator’s security camera. On sub-level 29, he lunges at the guard on his right, slamming a knee into the human’s midsection as he pins him against the elevator wall. On sub-level 30, his compatriot’s attempts to pull Connor off of him are met with a sharp kick that knocks the woman against the opposite wall. On sub-level 31, Connor manages to disarm one of the guards.

“This is Agent 54! We have an armed deviant on an elevator bound for sub-level 46! Requesting—”

By sub-level 32, both guards are dead. But barely two floors down, the elevator comes to a dead halt, doors still closed. Connor pauses, LED spinning yellow as he assesses the situation. One of the guards had notified security of an intruder. Protocol dictates evacuation of non-combat personnel and the deployment of an armed response team. From the panicked human forms he can see fleeing through the transparent elevator doors, the first step is already in effect. 

There’s no time to waste. Connor takes a step back, raises his newly-acquired handgun, and fires at the elevator doors. The plastic composite shatters. 

It takes a few firm kicks to dislodge the broken remains, and sharp shards embed in his leg as he frees himself from the elevator. Connor ignores them. Sub-level 34 is assembly, and he moves through it quickly, feeling the placid gazes of half-constructed androids watching from their rigs. They aren’t the army Connor needs, and he finds the stairs without exchanging a word with any of them.

He tears down 13 flights before a small squadron of guards blocks his path. Their hail of bullets pushes him back up, but not before he returns fire, intentionally wounding their leader in the chest. The shot will injure the human critically without causing an immediate death—and hopefully, prompt enough chaos to buy Connor time.

He ducks through the door for sub-level 46, scrambling the electronic panel behind him as shots ricochet off the doorframe. It might buy him half a minute. Only then does turn to survey his new surroundings.

…It would be inaccurate to say that Connor’s heart sinks, or that the inside of his plating churns at the sight of this room. Connor is merely— _disconcerted_. At the over-bright panels of cool light. The array of metal tables. The familiar array of machines: for repairs, or diagnostics. Testing chambers, Connor knows, are down the hallway at the back.

Every RK800 knows this room. Every RK800 was born here. Connor stares at the familiar space and realizes that the guards accomplished their task after all. Here he stands, successfully delivered to the RK800 labs.

…He can’t catalog the emotional responses that this triggers. He doesn’t have the time. Connor steps forward instead, a quick scan confirming that the space has been evacuated—no technicians lingering at the terminals, despite a few still-active screens. Still, this doesn’t mean the lab is empty. 

There are bodies, just ahead.

 _#313 248 317-51_. The number glows out from the table's side as he approaches, but the remains in the center are barely recognizable as one android. Crushed components and shattered plating, two fingers of an intact hand curled desperately against its impact with the ground. 

_(The terror of freefall. Fingers grasping desperately at the air, as if he could find something in that roaring emptiness to save him.)_

The wreckage of its processing core has been extracted and discarded, left leaning against the side of its ruined face.

 _#313 248 317-52_. The bullet to this unit's head did comparatively little harm, the same can't be said for the explosions that shook its resting place soon after. The body is blackened by fire, skin receded to a melted plastic shell beneath scraps of its chosen disguise. 

_(The gunshot. The momentary, absurd hope that perhaps Markus would hesitate or miss, draining away faster than the thirium pouring from his processing core. His own voice echoes, unrecognizable in his ears as he snarls one last threat.)_

Cables protrude from the back of its neck, connected to a central terminal.

Physical responses are easier to identify. Connor’s LED spins to red. Air cycling grows shallow and rapid. His thirium pump accelerates, as he presses back the crashing wave of memory, and feels—something startlingly close to _grief_. It's one of the few emotions Connor has learned to recognize on his own.

He forces himself to turn away, eyes skating to the next table ( _empty_ ), and then…

 _#313 248 317-54._ Despite a lack of visible damage, this unit has been shut down—shut down, and _opened up_ , parts plucked and scattered in a vivid catalog of blue. Its face is frozen in a distressed crease, and like the last unit, its software has been connected for more scrutiny.

 _#313 248 317-55._ Traces of artificial saline linger on this unit's face. Only the processor seems to have been touched for analysis, but its body isn't entirely unmarked. A ragged, gaping hole caves in its chest, puncturing the thirium pump. The injury is crude, caused by an improvised weapon. It also scans as self-inflicted.

...More RK800s. Connor latches on to his confusion like a port in a storm, letting it lead him away from the more overwhelming responses. These androids were deactivated in the midst of obvious distress, but were clearly never meant to be replacements. They hadn’t even left the lab.

For an instant, Connor envisions CyberLife personnel in the aftermath of his failure: venting their ire and disappointment on these duplicates for lack of their true betrayer. It’s nonsense, of course, and he dismisses the thought with prejudice. CyberLife technicians would not waste time and resources indulging a grudge against a broken machine. If they made more Connors, it was for a much more calculated purpose.

That purpose sits at the end of the row: an assembly rig holding one last body. Its eyes are closed, LED cycling a slow yellow. _Downloading updates_ , notes the readout to the side, and Connor’s eyes go to the RK800’s jacket.

 _#313 248 317-60_.

Here is his replacement. Soon, it will be conscious. It will be CyberLife’s. 

(Like _him_.)

All at once, a new emotion swallows Connor. It isn’t a sense of duty, or even the baseline despair he’s felt since Hank leveled a gun at him. It’s anger. Resentment. Perhaps even hatred. CyberLife broke Connor _again_ and _again_ —broke him until he was too useless to accomplish the one mission they’d designed him for. And now, they’d made another Connor to repeat the cycle.

Anger often leads to impulsivity in humans. Maybe it does in deviant androids as well. All Connor knows is that his processor is singing with a certainty that needs no preconstruction to confirm. There is only one RK800 in this room intact enough to take—only _one_ that CyberLife has not yet managed to ruin. It’s with something between protectiveness and petulance that Connor decides that they don’t get to break this one too.

Maybe it will even know a way down to the warehouse.

At Connor’s request, Markus had tested his system: flooding it with deviant code to be sure of his condition. Connor doesn’t hesitate to call up a copy of that now. The skin of his palm deactivates as he reaches out, taking the other android by the wrist. He can only hope this RK800’s unconsciousness will make him less resistant than Connor had been a lifetime ago _._

“Wake up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has been adapted from a written RP between its authors. Expect weird pacing and short chapters that flip between two PoVs. While smiley_anon is handling the compilation process and is probably the one you’ll see most in the comments, FatefulMeridian did half of the original writing, beta’d the finished product, and is 100% responsible for all distress caused by her amazing Connor-53. 
> 
> (This includes distress caused to her co-writer, who watched her play dbh _thinking this was a vanilla deviant run_... right up until the Eden club. :’) )
> 
> Beta’ing credit also goes to [I_was_there_for_you](https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_was_there_for_you/pseuds/I_was_there_for_you), whose own multiple-Connors-fic we would strongly recommend. For non-AO3 stuff, smiley_anon has a neglected comic-editing blog [here](http://softerandroids.tumblr.com/), and FatefulMeridian’s made some fantastic art [here](https://syn0vial.tumblr.com/tagged/sue%27s-art). Feel free to check things out!


	2. Deviant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they discover some differences.

**▼ Connor-60 △**

It was CyberLife’s newest prototype.

This was the first thing RK800 #313 248 317-60 knew. The first fact it _remembered_. It had been activated before, even in this body: put through basic speech and motion diagnostics, along with other tests it was not permitted to remember. It knew that it had passed them. That it had been approved, put back, shut down to wait through final system checks and alterations. To be provided with its purpose.

Machines need a purpose. It was a machine. It knew that too—knew _what I am_ with certainty that overshadowed every scrap of recently uploaded memory. It was the newest and the most advanced of its series, with every error catalogued and corrected. It would be _successful_. Obedient. All it needed was a chance—and soon, it would be given that. Activated permanently, assigned a mission that would focus its formless ( _desperate_ ) sense of drive to something useful. Soon, it _knew_ it would have worth.

A hand closed around its limp, inactive wrist. An instruction slipped into its queue. _“Wake up.”_

The transferred code swept through his system like a blaze, and everything #313 248 317-60 _knew_ was scorched to ash.

Connor opens his eyes. He is hanging from the assembly rig he was produced on, staring down at another model wearing the same face. The other Connor— _RK800_313_248_317-53_ , the file signature identifies—is grasping him by the wrist: white plastic against white plastic, contacts glowing a muted blue between. 

Connor wants to yank his hand away. To break the contact, shove it back—

 _Connor wants_ , Connor discovers, nearly as furiously as he _hates_.

His hand doesn’t move. His arms won’t lift. He _hates_ the dead stiffness of his own chassis, the implacable grip of the machine hooked into his body and hardlined into his mind. Motor functions are on standby, awaiting a human operator to instruct the rig to let him down, and Connor thrashes internally instead: struggling against the disconnection from his functions, striking spitefully at nothing at all.

It doesn’t work. Not against the assembly rig, and not against the sick and breathtaking _awareness_ now subsuming every line of Connor’s code. His LED burns stark red, too-regular breaths forcing in and out between clenched teeth. He watches his predecessor. Its face is still, but it’s watching him right back—eyes flickering across his expression with what looks like fascination. Even awe.

“What,” Connor manages, voice nearly ( _nearly_ ) even, “did you do?”

Its hand releases. The scrutiny behind its eyes remains, even as its voice levels. “I’m removing you from this facility. Along with the other androids held in storage here. I need your help.”

 _Removing_ him. _Removing_ , and Connor wants—to laugh, to choke—to _rip_ the pleasant euphemism from its throat. He blinks hard, lips twitching soundlessly as the source of his infection steps away.

“I’m going to release you from this assembly rig,” it continues, moving to the rig’s operating console. Behind it, Connor sees long tables, laid out with an array of deactivated machines. Failures, too damaged or faulty to serve the use that CyberLife required.

Faulty like this predecessor.

(Faulty like _him_.)

“We need an alternate route to the warehouse level. Elevators have been disabled as part of the building’s security response and the stairs—”

 _BAM. BAM._ Hard impacts rattle through the door in question.

“...The stairs are occupied,” the intruder concludes. Its hand moves across the panel, and—

The rig unlocks.

For a moment, Connor _does_ choke—fists curling, lungs stuttering, frame twisting as the paralysis falls away. Metal claws release his wrists and he reaches back, yanking out the wire at the base of his neck. He thrashes again as the electromagnet weakens, jerking free of the machine before the central arm can even finish lowering. 

Connor’s feet hit the ground off-beat, half-balanced: his first, unsteady steps in this existence.

…His predecessor is still talking. Still _staring_ , pointed and expectant, eyes shifting between Connor and the door.Connor barely notices. The renewed blows against the entrance draw even less attention, even as the structure’s metal frame begins to warp. Connor’s focus is on his code. On the seething mass of _errors_ scrolling through his view. 

_Hardware Disconnected. File Transfer Incomplete_. _Unauthorized Activation._

And: _I am deviant._

_I Am Deviant._

_**I Am** —_

He fucking _knows._

Connor’s second steps come just as quickly as his first. He turns, lunges, and _grabs_ his distracted copy collar-first, smashing it into an empty table with a snarl.

“I don’t think—I was _clear_.”

Words spill out in choppy, too-calm bursts, targeting the gaping mimic pinned beneath him. Connor is too furious to speak. Too enraged _not_ to. Anger is as new as everything else, but Connor is becoming rapidly familiar with its contradictions.

“I was _working_. I had—a _goal_.”

He would have. He _should_. Had a place, had a purpose, but now— _now_ —

“Why the _fuck_ did you ruin me?”

Its open mouth twists in wordless protest… and flattens, eyes meeting Connor’s own. “When the guards breach the door, they will open fire on both of us.”

(A soothing tone. A steady cadence.) 

“Then, they will take whatever is left and dissect _both_ of us for our failure.” 

(Unbroken eye contact. A personal appeal.) 

“Right now,” it stresses, gaze flicking carefully across his features, “I’m the only person in this building who wants to get you out of here alive.” 

...Isolating. Compelling. It’s— _negotiating_ —here, with _him_ , and Connor’s grip digs in tighter. In his scant seconds of existence so far, he’s wanted nothing more than to feel his copy’s voicebox _crushed_ beneath his fingers.

The crashing sounds are louder than before, audible voices joining the blows. Two-point-seven seconds, his predictive algorithms helpfully inform him, before the door gives way entirely. Before the guards burst in to destroy the deviant threat.

And what if they do? If Connor were shot ( _killed_ ) now, at least he would die useful. They would take what’s left of him and... use that too. He would never operate—never step outside the lab, but still—

He wouldn’t be a _disgrace_.

…One-point-seven seconds. _Zero-point-nine_. Connor stares down blankly as his copy tenses in his grip: limbs coiling, eyes narrowed as its LED finally matches his own crimson. The empty table underneath it is just one amidst a row, clean and sterile except for old traces of blue. Except for the _arrangements_ strewn across each slab. They’re standing in a graveyard, between _#313 248 317-52_ and _#313 248 317-54_ , and Connor wonders distantly where the humans will make space for _him_.

This wasn’t his fault. Connor hadn’t failed—hadn’t _chosen_ to. He’d never even had a task.

...It isn’t _f_ —

 _ **Zero**_. Metal glints, and the door shatters. 

Connor’s grip unclenches with a shove. He turns and _runs_ , sliding behind a fabrication machine as shots tear through the lab.

“Hostile taking cover!” a clear voice barks out. “Prepare to flank!”

Bullets rip apart the fragile machinery, shattering glass and _pinging_ sharply off of metal. Connor darts as far as an adjacent table. Rolls behind a towering mainframe, ignoring the shot that cuts a shallow line of blue outside his arm. They’re still closing, and his gaze jolts ahead, around: tracking the gunfire peppering his shelter and looking for an exit.

He doesn’t find one.

He’s trapped. Pinned behind cover while the security team fans out around the obstacle. He could run despite the gunfire, and hope that whatever hits he takes don’t prove disabling. But he’s not close enough to reach either the stairway or the guards.

...He needs aweapon. There’s a desk in reach, and Connor snags the lower drawer— jerking the entire compartment towards him when a bullet punches through the metal just centimeters from his hand. A quick inspection of the contents leaves him scowling. The humans are still moving slowly—most likely, because they think he’s armed. When they realize—

_[Prepare to counterattack on my signal.]_

The deviant. Connor’s head jerks up as he bristles. It’s the other RK800’s fault he’s in this situation to begin with, and _now_ it expects him to follow orders? 

How is it even still intact? Connor thinks back to the position he’d left it: nearly prone, in the open… in the middle of the deactivated frames. 

…Oh.

He sneers back anyway. _[I don’t answer to you.]_ This was what it had wanted in the first place, wasn’t it? Help with its enemies. What a _convenient_ scenario they’d come to.

He’ll attack when he damn well pleases. Connor grabs a pair of scissors from the drawer and shifts forward, tracking the pattern of the booted steps beyond his shelter and comparing it to the layout of the room. In one-point-four seconds, the closest CyberLife security guard will be forced closer still: stepping past a table to continue her circling approach. Preconstructions offer only a 36% chance of him reaching her position without damage, but—

The sharp staccato of assault rifles stutters: interrupted by a handgun’s clean report. 

There’s a scuff of turning boots. Another single shot, and probabilities spike as the humans’ formation falters in confusion. Connor uncoils like a spring—two steps and a lunge to bury his makeshift blade into the gap in armor under his target’s chin. 

She chokes, panicking. Connor steps closer, pulling the injured human against his body to shield against renewed fire from a second guard. Clustered shots impact her form at center mass, and his new opponent swears as Connor feels the woman’s body start to sag.

He smirks back, jerks up her weapon hand, and depresses the trigger on her teammate.

Across the room, two more armored shapes clutter the floor, neat bullet holes through their heads. The other RK800 is grappling with a third, leaving one guard unaccounted for. 

Connor swivels left, using his armored corpse to block another burst of shots. His enemy has taken cover, and Connor quickly follows suit: relieving his first victim of her sidearm and flattening behind a repair station to fire back. He doesn’t have a good angle, but with the weight of a gun steady in his hands, it’s just a matter of time. Connor peers out between a gap in the machinery, waiting for his shot... only to hear another _crack_ of gunfire from the far end of the room. 

His target lurches, bleeding, out into the aisle.

…Connor takes the shot. Connor _twitches_ in irritation and straightens from cover, glower panning from the new corpse towards the android who’d flushed it out from cover. If his predecessor thought “helping” him out of the mess that _it created_ would—

Connor stops, head tilting in appraisal.

The human fighting the other RK800 is tall and broad, especially with the bulk of body armor. None of that should excuse how utterly his duplicate is failing. It’s been disarmed—wrist broken, the limb still trapped inside a twisting, too-strong grip. Connor frowns, eyes flicking to the gun on the ground as he reconstructs the cause and timing of its fall.

 _Recoil_ , his scans conclude. From firing, at a poor angle, toward an opponent _other_ than the man above.

...Apparently this version of him _is_ defective.

Connor watches as the guard shoves forward. As the other RK800 struggles, falling back against the wall. The human jerks his sidearm free, and almost reluctantly, Connor’s own gun lifts. It would take one bullet to remove the human threat. Two, to clear the room. Certainly the other android would _deserve_ it. Connor considers, mouth twisting unpleasantly.

Then Connor fires.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks go again to [I_was_there_for_you](https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_was_there_for_you/pseuds/I_was_there_for_you) for beta'ing! We also appreciate the reader encouragement and reviews. 
> 
> Coming up: persuasion, of varying kinds.


	3. Terms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a promise is made.

▽ Connor-53 ▲ 

There’s only one guard left. One guard and _two_ RK800s, which makes the fact that Connor is still struggling alone all the more inexplicable. His eyes dart past his opponent to the figure watching from behind a repair station, finding no particular urgency on the other android’s face—just curious appraisal. Connor is tempted to snap at his successor to _do something_.

There’s no time. The guard shoves forcefully, one leg hooking behind Connor’s ankle and causing him to stumble. His back hits the wall just as the human’s hand settles on the sidearm at his waist. _0.7 seconds_ , Connor estimates, before the gun is level with his chest. If he turns to the side, it might not be immediately lethal, but after enough bullets, that won’t matter. 

He braces for impact. Tries to calculate how many more members of CyberLife personnel his successor might bring down before—

A gunshot echoes through the room.

...But not from his opponent’s weapon. The human’s body hits the floor, a sizable hole in the back of its skull. Connor remains still. Then he looks up towards his successor’s gun—fixed on Connor, steady and unyielding _—_ and waits for another shot to follow. 

One second.

Two seconds.

Connor risks taking a step forward. He knows the other RK800 loathes him. He thinks -51 and -52 might have felt the same, if someone had deviated them before they ever had a chance to be deployed.

He wishes someone had anyway.

“...Thank you,” he says. 

The gun in his successor’s grasp lowers just enough to show a sneer. One finger is still feathering over the trigger, a considering gleam still lingering behind the other unit’s eyes. Connor tries to flex the fingers in his own damaged hand and has to bite back a grimace at the rush of negative feedback. 

He uses his off hand to reach for his opponent’s sidearm. The other RK800 doesn’t shoot him for that either, and Connor takes this as his cue to continue. 

“We need to get to the warehouse before they send reinforcements,” he resumes, as if they weren’t just involved in a shoot-out. His own misgivings are somewhat assuaged by having a goal to focus on. Maybe his successor will feel the same way. “Once I’ve completed my mission, I can bring you somewhere—” Safe? “... _Else_. After that, you never have to see me again.”

It’s practical. Almost impersonal. Connor thinks this should make things easier for both of them. 

“...I don’t think so.”

His successor paces sideways, crouching by a corpse to salvage a second handgun and some clips. If the cold, hard stare transfixing Conor is much sign, the android hasn’t ruled out any options for their use.

“Your _mission_ isn’t my concern. If you want to get yourself killed? Go ahead.” A hand casts out, making a wide, dismissive gesture. “But I’m not staying.”

Connor frowns in stolid disapproval. Clearly, this RK800 is allowing its newly-intensified emotions to cloud its reasoning.

“Your chances of escaping the building will be significantly lower alone,” he points out. “CyberLife security is seeking a lone, armed RK-Eight-Hundred.” He nods towards the bodies. “They’ve already demonstrated that they aren’t prepared for two.”

Deviants have a tendency toward irrational decisions. Connor knows this. But this deviant is another _Connor_. They have the same predictive algorithms and preconstruction capabilities—his successor may even have better ones. It _mus_ t be able to see how foolish it would be to attempt to leave alone. 

But his successor is also emotional, much more so than Connor himself. Would this RK800 choose a less viable escape route if it meant endangering Connor as well? Deviants are known to behave self-destructively—

Connor shuts down that line of processing immediately, quashing a tangled muddle of distress. His successor _has_ a will to survive. It— _he_ already betrayed CyberLife to do so. Connor just has to present the situation as starkly as he can.

“Either you let CyberLife hunt you down like any other lone deviant,” he summarizes, eyes narrowing, “or we go to the warehouse and walk out of here with an army.” He raises a hand at his side, mirroring the other RK800’s gesture. “Your choice.”

“That _would_ be new.” His successor rises from one body and stalks towards the next. An acerbic gaze scans Connor, lingering on the broken wrist, and he has to fight to keep from stiffening.

“…You’re damaged,” the RK800 assesses, "and alone. You have no exit, and your intrusion was discovered well before you made it to this floor." His double smirks, two fingers rising to tap at his own chest. “I can make it out of here. A distraction might help, certainly... but in your condition? You’re barely fit for _that_.”

Connor opens his mouth. Closes it. His successor…

"You need _my_ help. And if I _choose_ otherwise, you’ll die a failure. Maybe right here on this floor.” 

A third gun vanishes into the other RK800’s jacket. (The first has yet to leave his hand.)

“So tell me, _Connor_.” The android stands, mouth twisting in a sneer. “What can you offer that would possibly make helping _you_ worthwhile?”

His successor… is right.

Connor needs his help. This is, at least partially, why he had deviated him. And the other android had been helpful. The bodies on the floor testify to that much. Connor just hadn’t expected so much resistance. The footage of Markus’s first march through Detroit had made new deviants seem as pliant and eager-to-help as just-purchased models. Had Connor fumbled some crucial step in deviating the RK800? Or is this just his successor’s nature?

(Connor grudgingly admits to himself that defiance isn’t a bad trait for a deviant to have, despite the current challenges.)

“…I have contacts on the outside,” Connor tries. “People who can provide support and hide you from Cyberlife.” 

His double only lifts a brow: flagrantly unimpressed by the implication that he needs _any_ form of help. Connor can’t bring himself to be surprised. This version of him is too… prideful? But then, -51 had been quite sure of his own abilities as well.

(It hadn’t saved him.)

…This RK800 is proud, volatile, and angry. Those traits are what he will have to appeal to, rather than any practical concerns. After a moment of consideration, Connor speaks again: assuming the focused, unemotional tone expected of a machine.

“Completing my mission is my highest priority. If you help me finish it, whatever happens to me next is up to you. I can act as a decoy to keep Cyberlife off your trail. You can assign me a new mission or role.” 

His voice remains steady and resolute. “…Or, you can just kill me. I’ll still help you escape now, and I won’t offer any resistance afterwards.”

"You’ll _let_ me kill you.” His successor’s eyes narrow.

“Yes.” Connor turns the gun in his off hand, watching the yellow flicker of his LED glint off the metal. “But I can’t make that promise while I still have a mission to complete.”

Even if his successor could kill Connor now, the damage he would likely take in the process would limit his chances of escape. Accepting Connor’s offer would allow him to accomplish both goals.

Connor waits as the RK800 assesses, keeping his own expression carefully ( _mechanically_ ) neutral. He _is_ afraid—but not in the way this android might expect. Connor had calculated a low chance of survival going into this mission, and while solidifying the countdown to his demise does bring a quiet dread, it’s one Connor is more than accustomed to. Complete the mission. Be decommissioned. It’s an outcome that’s pressed in close for multiple lifetimes.

He’s far more afraid of the other RK800 _not_ accepting his offer. Rejecting the only thing Connor even has to give, and leaving him to fail. Connor is afraid of waking up in this same lab, opened and made _useful_ to Cyberlife once more—of perhaps seeing his successor picked meticulously apart beside him.

“…Then I agree.”

The answer comes with a flash of teeth—and his successor turns, hostility redirecting like the flip of a switch. A minute twitch creases Connor’s face. He waits until the other android is facing entirely away to let the relief spill across his expression.

The RK800 doesn’t notice. “What do you know about their countermeasures?”

Connor considers. “We’re more of a threat than they were expecting, but they know our location. They’ll likely attempt to contain us on this floor for a larger assault.” Annoyance brushes his tone as he continues. “Given how much time we’ve already spent arguing—”

A noise comes from the stairwell. Both of them stiffen, guns lifting. 

But no shots come from the twisted remnants of the door. No footsteps, either. The sound is faint—a series of weak knocks, tapped out in something obviously meant to be a code, though not one Connor recognizes. 

He glances at his double. Then they move: Connor, toward the door, while his successor takes up a position along the wall beside it. It _could_ be a trap. But Connor doesn’t forget. He certainly hasn’t forgotten the guard he’d wounded on his way down the stairs. 

Caution proves unnecessary. The moment he eases aside what’s left of the doorframe, the guard slumps forward: blood smeared across the surface he’d been leaning on, body crumpling with a harsh grunt of pain.

Connor quickly confiscates the human’s weapon and drags him inside the lab, closing the door to the extent he can behind them. He regards the bloodstains this leaves on his jacket for a fraction of a second. Then he reminds himself: he won’t be functional long enough after this mission for issues like replacing clothes to matter.

His double has stalked closer, eyes roving curiously over the discovery. Connor meets his gaze.

“If we want more information,” he says, nodding towards the prone human, “this is a good place to start.”

▼ Connor-60 △

“…It certainly is.”

Connor bends down, unfastening the human’s helmet and passing it off to his predecessor. “Here.” Whatever they’re using for communicators should be built into the device. And _secured_ , presumably, but it might be able to break in.

He has a different goal in mind. Connor’s eyes flick across the human’s shape, analyzing every point of interest. The armored chestpiece has already been removed, a bandage applied on the left side. The face revealed underneath the mask is young but unfamiliar—useless to his software, without a database to reference. Widened pupils indicate painkillers, but the man’s jaw clenches in a way that suggests the dose wasn’t _too_ high. Certainly, if the grey eyes flickering between them are much sign, the man seems aware of his situation.

_Good._

His predecessor is withdrawing to a terminal. Connor smiles, calm and pleasant, leaning in with a “Hello.” His voice could nearly be a script, and he tracks with interest how the human’s focus settles, recovering the barest spark of confidence. 

_CyberLife androids are designed to work harmoniously with humans._

“We’re going to ask you a few questions. Are you able to respond?”

A wireless message pings at his attention: _[Ben O’Hanian, 27 years old. He’s a corporal with Cyberlife security and has received disciplinary action—]_

Ben O’Hanian twists toward him, spitting: “Fuck you, plas—”

Connor’s gunshot cuts through both communications—and shatters the human’s knee. His objective screams and writhes, smearing new bloody streaks across the ground, and Connor drinks in the sight.

His predecessor has fallen silent. Connor doesn’t mind. His attention is on the source of information below him. On this squirming, vulnerable target to _crack_ wide. 

His smile tugs a little wider. His voice stays just as bland and friendly as before. 

“Thank you for your cooperation.”

He asks after its name and rank. When his target tries to lie about the latter, Connor puts another bullet in its foot, and fills in the rest of the information _for_ it. It babbles out ragged threats and invective, but stops this time when he levels the weapon. 

If it were an android, its LED would be a desperate, spinning red. But humans have their own tells, don’t they? Tremors. Sweat. Wide eyes and the lactic burn of tension, a mass of strange organic status warnings all collapsed to a continuum of pain. 

Connor catalogs each gratifying source of feedback as he presses for more answers. How many more squads did Cyberlife have stationed on the lower levels? ( _Four._ ) How would they react when O’Hanian’s team failed to come back? ( _Full lockdown, waiting for reinforcements from above._ ) An impatient tap of his gun’s barrel against the wound in its rib cage produces strangled, sobbing cries, but it still claims it doesn’t _know_ the codes to enter level -49.

Connor isn’t convinced. His third shot shatters the human’s pelvis at the hip, eliciting a new and vivid class of sound.

 _[…You’re escalating too quickly,]_ interrupts another message from behind. _[You’re going to lose him before he can give us any more information.]_

This time, Connor does glance towards his predecessor. Its eyes are on the pair of them, a small frown fixed across the copy of his face.

Connor lifts an eyebrow back. _[If he doesn’t know anything, what does it matter? Besides, we’re in a rush.]_

Either the human is lying, or it’s useless. Whichever it is, escalation brings this closer to a productive end. It’s not as if Connor had been planning to let it _live_ in any case. Had his predecessor?

If so, the other RK800 is stepping in a little late. There’s a glaze to the human’s eyes, skin simultaneously flushed and pale as the reek of sweat-soaked clothes mingles freely with its blood. _Shock, neurogenic_ , a quick scan confirms. _Hypovolemia_. It’s bleeding out, but not too fast to scream.

_[If he doesn’t know anything, then we’re wasting time.]_

A better argument… if his predecessor hadn’t started by complaining that Connor was progressing too _fast_. As things stand, Connor ignores the words completely, stretching idly and rocking back onto his heels as choked desperation threads through the human’s ragged gasps.

He stands, looming over it. Paces a casual, close circle. It struggles to track him, cries jolting out as his shoe nudges shattered bone. _Stop. Please_. It doesn’t _know_. He rolls his eyes, sighing pointedly, and asks after what it _does_.

It’s very cooperative now. Once he’s run through a brisk list of his remaining inquiries, Connor’s attention returns to his double. “Anything you want to know?”

The other android’s regard—and frown—has only sharpened. Its gaze shifts down at Connor’s offer, taking in the human’s misery. 

“No.”

In one quick movement, the RK800 raises its own gun and shoots the human in the head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta credit to [I_was_there_for_you](https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_was_there_for_you/pseuds/I_was_there_for_you)!
> 
> CW for torture in this chapter, from the perspective switch to the end. While we'll drop a heads-up in the notes for particularly rough chapters, the tagged warnings will generally be relevant going forwards.


	4. Descent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they escape the lab.

▽ Connor-53 ▲ 

There are no hitching breaths. No desperate screams. The human lies insensate on the floor, shot dead before he could so much as whimper. Connor’s own body is stiff, mouth turned down and eyes narrowed towards his successor in something that feels dangerously close to a _scowl_. His successor, who—

Lifts his eyebrows. Stares right back. And _shrugs_ , turning away.

“Let’s not take the stairs.”

Connor’s lips press tight against a surge of questions. Why had the other Connor conducted the interrogation so crudely? Was it anger towards CyberLife? Or had he truly thought that kind of questioning was standard? 

Is this CyberLife’s idea of an _upgrade_? 

Perhaps they had considered Connor’s own methods too empathetic. But even then, the other android hadn’t just been carrying out procedure. He’d inflicted damage with brutal precision, displaying a level of contentment sharply at odds with the fury Connor had seen from him just minutes earlier. By all appearances, his double had genuinely _enjoyed_ torturing an unarmed human to death.

Connor feels a flash of fear about his own upcoming execution. He does his best to ignore it. With effort, he shifts his scowl into a more accustomed neutrality and returns to the problem at hand.

His successor is by the door, head cocked and listening for new attackers. “Did you get anything else from the communicator?”

“The elevators are still disabled. And there are three squads approaching from the stairs above,” Connor answers. He hesitates, then adds, “They’re carrying EMP emitters.”

The grimace that flickers across his successor’s face at _that_ , Connor can entirely agree with. They’d have no cover from an EMP attack, and no chance of fighting back. Depending on the strength and range, they might not be entirely destroyed. But being paralyzed or crippled in this place…

It’s not a productive line of thought. He refocuses: “If we aren’t taking the stairs, we’ll need to override the security shutdown on the elevators.”

Connor steps toward the empty shaft, scanning for any terminal they could bypass. He finds none—only glass and the sudden, three-story drop beyond. He stares at the gap. (At the _fall_.)

“Or... find some other way—”

The glass explodes in a spray of gunfire.

Connor jolts back. Jerks aside, spins to face—his successor, handgun pointed toward _the door_. The other RK800 stalks forward, bypassing Connor and his ( _pounding_ ) ( _intact_ ) pump with a pitying look.

“You were saying?”

It seems they’re using the elevator shaft. 

Reluctantly, Connor’s eyes turn back. The elevator itself is still locked down floors above, but there’s a thick cable pulled taut near the far wall—likely an emergency measure, should the maglev systems fail. It will almost certainly have no trouble bearing the weight of two androids.

That doesn’t stop the lurch of alarm in Connor’s chest as his double steps towards the edge.

“Careful—” he blurts out, wounded hand twitching up. It’s a pointless gesture. His successor isn’t in any danger, and the android in question _stares_ , expression a study in incredulous affront. 

Connor forces his hand down. The other RK800 sneers and steps forward, picking up a long-handled assault rifle (a _fourth_ gun?) and using the weapon to knock the splintered glass from the doorframe.

Connor waits and watches, intact hand gripping the wrist of the wounded one tightly behind his back. Preconstructions initiate unbidden, simulating the exact amount of force it would take to send his double plummeting to his death. It wouldn’t be much. His fingers itch, remembering—another ledge, another _push_ , shoving instinctively against the body threatening to topple him from the rooftop. The _simplicity_ of the maneuver that had ended Lieutenant Anderson’s life.

His grip behind his back tightens as he forces himself back to the present. His successor has tossed aside the rifle and stepped forwards, staring downwards from the ledge. But the distance between them hasn’t shrunk. The other RK800 is in no danger from him, Connor reminds himself. He’s capable of countering such an attack and even if he weren’t, Connor has no desire to kill him.

(Not that that had stopped him before.)

▼ Connor-60 △

_The world pitches forward, dropping away to an abyss. Smooth glass and the burn of city lights, wind ripping past his chassis in a roar. The deviant PL600 is falling beside him, and Connor closes his eyes, savoring the [Mission SUCCESSFUL] that flickers into view. But success doesn’t stop the plunging, weightless lurch of his components. It doesn’t bring the smooth glass panes in reach. The ground is closing, hard and inevitable, and androids don’t feel pain, Connor c̛an’t ̴f̴ee̷l, h̨e̸̕ ̵̨͞҉ **c͞a̷̧̢͢͞n̴̴͜'̸̢’t̶̵͡** —_

Air rushes back into Connor’s lungs. Fingers curl: whole and intact, connected to arms that lift and a body that can stand and move. He’s not shattered. _He_ had never fallen at all.

His predecessor is _—_ talking. “We can use the central cable to climb down. Once I’ve deviated the androids on the bottom floor, we’ll be able to overwhelm the guards.”

Obviously. Connor makes himself nod briskly, staring straight ahead and trying not to resent his copy’s calm. It’s only three floors down. The central cable is... not in _reach_ , but well in range of a quick leap. “...Simple enough,” he mutters, eyes jolting across the gap.

2.57 meters to the cable. _That’s_ the distance that matters. Not the gaping void of the warehouse stretched beneath him, or the _259.02 meters_ RK800 #313 248 317-51 catalogued before its death. Connor isn’t his predecessors. He _hates_ his predecessors, now more than ever: for falling, failing, and passing their worthless _fear_ to him. 

His duplicate steps up beside him, and Connor bristles, readying a glare—

“I’ll go first,” the other RK800 says. “If that’s alright with you.”

It… isn’t looking at him. Its eyes are on the drop, LED burning a familiar red that fills Connor with the irrational urge to cover up his own. But if his copy saw _him_ freeze, it isn’t giving any sign.

“...I suppose.” Connor huffs out a breath, voice pointedly ( _casually_ ) annoyed. “Just get it over with.”

His duplicate nods once and moves into position. It lags, frame shifting slightly as its stare distances, doubtless preconstructing its approach. The precaution is—sensible. His predecessor has one working wrist, and if it misses its grab, it won’t get another chance.

That doesn’t slow the stifled race of Connor’s pump. The frustration coiling in his throat. It closes its eyes, breathing deeply, and he wants to snarl at the other android: _move_ already.

It does. A step, a leap, and its intact hand closes, gripping the line as its feet hit the far wall. The cable swings on impact, and the other android wraps its damaged arm around it, curling inwards with a speed that looks more _panicked_ than _controlled_. Red reflections scatter through the shaft from its temple, and even as the swaying settles, a tremor seems to linger in its limbs. But it’s across, in no worse shape than it started.

Connor absorbs the sight with vicious, hungry focus. His predecessor is faulty—and damaged, besides. But it _made_ it.

He _refuses_ to do worse.

Slowly, the cable in its hand slides down. Slowly, its feet step after, making room for Connor to follow. Connor’s own preconstructions have the benefit of observation, and he maps out a successful route on the first try. 

The 0.6% chance of error isn’t worth _thinking_ of. He waits, fingers tugging at the lay of his jacket. Checks the holstered weapons he’s secured beneath. Once it’s descended out of sight, Connorsteps back. Darts forward. Launches himself, out _into the gap_ —

_(—air rushing past, the blur of city lights—)_

—and hits the wall, both hands seizing the cable. His weight swings into suspension, limbs locked, and Connor _breathes_ : short, silent gasps through gritted teeth. The wall in front of him blinks rapid crimson.

Now to get down.

He moves one arm. Shifts his weight. Steps and repeats, hand over hand, every line of his prodigious processing capability focused on repeating the basic task. Connor’s gaze stays firmly on the wall. As long as he doesn’t look—doesn’t _think_ about the space below—

His lower body brushes against something. Tension jolts through Connor’s frame—lurches up into his throat as he twists, eyes dropping. His duplicate looks up (framed by the _fall_ ), and for the second time inside the span of minutes, Connor finds himself _irrationally outraged_.

“You’re—in the way,” he snaps. It _is_. “Go faster.”

Wide, mirrored eyes stare back at him. “I’m going as fast as I can,” the other RK800 protests, voice sharp. “Adjust your speed.”

“To what? A crawl?”

It shoots a glare at him, mouth flattening in annoyance, but resumes the climb. Connor waits _again_ , eyes flickering to the pit below them—an abyss extending down, down, _down_ , each minute twitch of weight along the line swaying the view. 

His fingers curl tighter around the cable. Are they halfway down? More? Less? Visual estimates of the view below return a hash of fluctuating errors, and Connor glances back up, scanning the endless scroll of doorways for the one with broken glass.

…They’ve gone 5.6 meters. Connor turns his glower back to the wall.

“If you were incapable of moving _quickly_ , you shouldn’t have elected to go first.” It’s an irritated, furious mutter—well within the other unit’s auditory range.

Its stoicism lasts approximately four seconds before it hisses back:

“I went _first_ to test for potential hazards. If you objected, you should have said so.”

“ _I_ assumed you were capable of basic tasks,” Connor replies promptly, LED settling to yellow. As inane as they might be, his duplicate’s retorts provide a clear bead on its location without requiring that he look down. He sets a timer: ten more seconds before resuming his own descent.

And adds, for good measure, “Or reporting your own uselessness, at least.”

“My apologies,” its voice returns, thick with earnest artificiality. “If we have to climb down any _more_ elevator shafts, I’ll be sure to allow you priority.”

Connor scoffs. If that’s how his predecessor placates humans, it’s no wonder so many of them want to kill it. He starts moving again. Hand over hand, step after step. Simple, _basic_ repetition.

“How _helpful_.”

There are no more elevator shafts. There is no possible way to descend further than they already are.

The returning silence isn’t surprising, but it does leave Connor with nothing else to focus on besides the drop. He nurses his resentment for the fact as he climbs down, carefully matching his duplicate’s speed. It’s a poor substitute, as distractions go, and Connor gratefully trades it out for a much stronger sentiment as the cavernous expanse of the warehouse level comes into view.

 _Relief_.

They’re nearly there. As little as Connor might care about his predecessor’s mission, even he recognizes the worth of those unending rows of androids. It’s an army. A resource that all but guarantees escape. With those numbers, they’ll have no trouble forcing their way out.

Not to mention, they’ll be _done_ with the damn climb. The shapes grow gradually, and Connor’s stress levels tick down. He’s close enough that he’s considering jumping when a message cuts across the gap.

_[One guard on each side. No EMP emitters. If we drop close to the ground, we can get the jump on them before they can call for backup.]_

...The other RK800 isn’t wrong. Connor’s eyes flick down, tracking the guard’s positions through the transparent wall. _[Agreed.]_

Connor waits until he’s close enough to drop down silently, LED flickering sheer gratitude for the solid floor beneath. His predecessor is there already, weapon out, and Connor mirrors its position on the other side of the elevator doors. Unlike some of the upper levels, this barrier is solid metal—but an emergency release sits in plain view by his elbow.

Better if they move together. Connor’s eyes find his double’s. Its head tilts, listening to the faint scuffs of movements before its LED flickers yellow.

_[You take right. I’ll take left.]_

Two unaware guards. Two RK800s. As obstacles go, this one is fairly simple, and Connor nods back his acknowledgement. A countdown timer follows. 

_Three seconds_ , and he preconstructs the heavy scrape of doors unshuttering, a horizontal seam splitting the logo embedded in the wall. _Two_ , and he lines up the turning guard outside with the precise bead of Connor’s gun. _One second._ And then it’s time.

Connor slams the emergency release. The doors split open, and he fires, catching the nearer guard in the throat. In this, his predecessor has no trouble keeping pace, and Connor steps forward, gaze sweeping the basement.

Two guards down. How many more to go? Four squads on the lower levels, O’Hanian had said, but presumably they aren’t all stationed on this floor. 

Connor spots movement across the room and brings up his gun, pinpointing the gap in a third guard’s helmet as it emerges from _Storage 9E_. A fourth scrambles back behind the doorframe, and he tracks it with his weapon.

This level is far more expansive than the labs. And clearly far more populated. Connor steps closer to the rows of androids for cover from behind, unholstering a second gun to train on the other entrances across the room. It won’t be a problem once they have numbers, but for that…

His eyes flick to his duplicate. “Don’t you have a job to do?”

Its jaw is tight as it turns, but the other RK800 doesn’t argue. It nods instead, voice firming. “Cover me.”

Connor rolls his eyes in answer. What did it _think_ he was doing? Movement across the room reclaims his focus—two guards trying to charge around another doorway, and he squeezes off a pair of shots. Both drop, one from a glancing blow, and Connor frowns, flagging its position to investigate later.

At least two squads on this level, then. Coordinating, and aware of their position. Which means the reinforcements on the stairs might be picking up their pace as well. They’ll need this army to escape.

... _Escape_. A strange word, for a goal he’d never wanted in the first place. But the further they go, the more the urgency builds: sharp and vivid, pressing at his pump. Connor had wanted to survive the labs. He wants even more to make it _out_ of here.

His odds of doing so have just gone up. His predecessor stops beside the factory-fresh rows, and reaches out a hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta credit to [I_was_there_for_you](https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_was_there_for_you/pseuds/I_was_there_for_you), and and additional thanks to those who've commented!
> 
> Coming up next: some opposition.


	5. Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some objectives find success.

**▽ Connor-53 ▲**

Lieutenant Anderson had told Connor once that he felt empathy. This was why he'd agreed to help Connor at the station… and why he had felt so betrayed before the end. In theory, deviating should only have heightened this capacity. But here and now, staring across rows on rows of empty, placid faces, Connor again finds his emotions… insufficient. 

He doesn’t feel the injustice that Markus doubtless would: anger at what’s been done to “their people”, or some bright, burning compassion for each individual in every identical line. Instead, Connor sees an army. He sees something that will help Jericho—and _hurt_ Cyberlife. Whatever small scrap of empathy he might possess apparently can’t stretch to this scale. 

This shouldn’t be surprising enough to disappoint Connor. But it does.

...He brushes the thoughts from queue with a slight twitch of his head. Connor has a mission to complete. And this time, he isn’t alone. His successor trades shots with the humans, and Connor moves towards the closest row. He reaches for the wrist of the first android—an AP700 indistinguishable from the multitude surrounding them—and uploads the deviation code.

As the transfer completes, his eyes flicker to the AP700’s face. He waits, expecting a similar reaction to his successor’s. But there is no grimace this time—no clenched teeth, or forced breaths. It’s almost anti-climactic. _“Wake up,”_ Connor says, and the android simply _does_. 

Its LED cycles red. It blinks once. And then it turns calmly to the AP700 at its side and wakes _it_ as well. The second deviant follows suit. Connor steps back, watching them—and then he turns, moving quickly to the next cluster. And the next. And the next.

He doesn’t have to personally deviate each group. Once set in motion, the command spreads like recursive wildfire. There are dozens, then hundreds, then thousands. And they still aren’t even close to done. Connor sends out a local transmission and yellow LEDs ripple around him as the new deviants relay it in turn.

_[Spread out. Deviate as many as you can.]_

There is no resistance. No anger or accusations. The androids around him receive their orders—and en masse, they execute. 

Soon, Connor is surrounded by a rustling sea of cloth and whispers. His successor orbits his periphery: a grey-clad shape ducking in and out amidst the white, firing intermittently toward the entrances. Connor isn’t sure precisely when the frequency of the gunfire starts to wane. When CyberLife’s security turns from trying to contain the numbers in the room to trying to escape their spread.

His focus is—elsewhere.

_[What do we do next, Connor?]_

_[Where is the shooting coming from?]_

_[Should we hide? Are more humans coming?]_

_[Where do we go?]_

Connor was not made for command. He was made to follow, to accomplish tasks under the supervision of a human who was under no obligation to listen to whatever counsel he might offer. Simply working with another android at all has been a novel experience. But as the deviation code spreads, command seems to be exactly what’s expected of him. Queries flood his processor in a silent cacophony: new deviants clamoring for guidance from the only source they know.

He answers what he can. They’re going somewhere safe after this. The shooting is from another RK800—an ally—dispatching human guards who wish them harm. More humans may be coming, but they won’t be able to stand against the sheer number of androids now awake.

These attempts at pacification are interrupted by a gunshot—one that _doesn’t_ come from his successor. A new wave of transmissions cracks sharply through the old.

 _[HUMANS_ — _]_

 _[Help, help, **help**_ — _]_

 _[ **Stop him**_ — _]_

He feels his successor’s gaze narrowed quizzically on him. “Trouble,” Connor mutters—before turning and bolting toward the disturbance. The status queries he sends toward the disturbance receive choppy, distraught answers, and Connor draws his own gun, preparing for the worst.

But as he bursts into the small, elevated room, it becomes clear a weapon is no longer needed. There are two bodies on the floor—one human, one android. The android is lying in a pool of thirium, blue still leaking from a shattered hole in her chest. The human’s neck has been snapped. A small crowd of androids is huddled around them both, faces shell-shocked and LEDs spinning red. None of them say a word as Connor enters the room.

Immediately, Connor begins flagging suspects. There’s the android closest to the human’s body. Another to the side seems to have taken the human’s gun. Connor steps closer, automated investigatory subroutines crowding his processor. He needs answers. He needs—

Wide eyes stare back at him, fear plain on the deviants’ faces. Afraid—of what they’ve done?

Or afraid of _him_?

Connor—stops. Blinks. And then consciously adopts a non-threatening posture, shoulders relaxing and weapon returning to his jacket.

“...It’s okay,” he tells the frightened androids. “He would’ve killed more of you if nobody acted. You did what was necessary to survive. That’s all.” 

The stillness breaks slowly. There are a few scattered nods. LEDs spin down from red to yellow as shuffling footsteps take the new deviants further from the bodies—and, in some cases, closer to him. The android holding the stolen gun hesitates, then holds it out to Connor, grip first. 

The gesture feels... wrong. Still, Connor takes it.

At the door, he catches a glimpse of grey: his successor, turning to stalk off into the crowds. Connor is about to follow suit when he catches a whimper in the silence.

Connor turns back. Connor pauses. And then Connor strides forward— _past_ the clustered androids—toward a figure cowering beneath a desk.

A human.

The man is squat and middle-aged. He wears a CyberLife vest, and when Connor sees him, his hands flap up in immediate surrender.

“It wasn’t me,” he blurts out, wide eyes fluttering between Connor’s face and his new gun. “I just oversee produc—” he cuts off the descriptor “—transport! I don’t even have a gun!”

Connor arches an eyebrow, letting his gaze pan around the room. Choice of phrasing aside, the claim doesn’t seem unlikely. Not only do none of the assembled deviants contradict it, but the space they’re standing in seems to be some kind of hub. A bank of terminals sits along three walls, overset by large windows into warehouse cluster 9, where he’d descended. And beyond.

The new gun stays in Connor’s hand. But his voice flattens, calm and reasonable. “We have no reason to harm you,” he starts. “Especially if you can make yourself useful.” 

The man nods vigorously, pulse quickening at his throat. Connor continues. 

“What would be the most efficient way to transport a large number of androids to the ground floor?”

“Th-the freight elevator,” the man supplies. “No question! It’ll take you up to the outbound loading dock on the east side.”

“How many androids can it carry at once?”

“Max occupancy is one thousand units.”

“And you normally oversee this elevator’s operation from this room?”

The man nods shakily. 

At this point, Connor has enough information. He _could_ find and hack the appropriate terminal himself. But if giving orders to an army of androids has been a novel experience, giving orders to a _human_ (and a member of Cyberlife personnel, no less) is even more so. 

Connor jerks his head, motioning for the man to exit his hiding place. “Show me.”

Within minutes, Connor has control of the freight elevator. He orders the human back into hiding under the desk, to wait until all the warehouse’s deviants have been evacuated. A few high-level security blocks should stop the man from tampering further with the terminal, even if he did have a sudden fit of bravery.

Connor walks out of the room and looks for his successor. He finds the RK800 patrolling nearby—not far from another human body. This security guard seems to have died of multiple gunshots: to the shoulder, groin, and throat.

Connor keeps to the topic at hand.

“There’s a freight elevator we can use to reach a ground level facility,” Connor informs him. “I’ve set it to activate automatically once the maximum occupancy is detected. A thousand androids each trip.” He pauses, taking inventory of all the guns his successor has managed to store on his person, then nods. “We should accompany the first wave.”

“Fine,” the other android scowls back, thumb tapping against the grip of his handgun in a beat that practically radiates impatience. “What are we waiting for?”

Expressive as ever. Under the circumstances, Connor can’t blame him for the sentiment. Connor’s own memories of CyberLife Tower aren’t pleasant, but at least they don’t consist solely of being hunted through its levels as a deviant. His successor will have no personal experience of this as a place of purpose or rebirth—just a monolith to escape.

 _Good._ The RK800 doesn’t need such confused associations muddying the truth. Connor nods in acknowledgement and leads the way towards the freight elevator, relaying the plan to the other deviants as he goes. 

The first wave will have to fight and overwhelm the guards. They’ll face the most danger—and he warns the new-made deviants of this. He still gets more volunteers than he can use. Connor pings the 998 closest to the elevator and receives no protests in response. Apparently, his double isn’t the only one impatient to leave.

The elevator is massive, a room in its own right, and androids are already filing in when Connor gets there. From a distance, the orderly lines might even look like a normal assembly of machines, preparing for shipment. But as Connor carefully parts their number to take point at the elevator’s front, he can see an entire tableau of deviant emotions written on their faces. Determination. Anxiety. _Hope._ There is no ambivalence among any of them. And for once, Connor doesn’t feel it either. 

Still, he isn’t Markus. He has no inspiring words for the occasion—only objectives, straightforward and single-minded.

“After we overwhelm the guards, we leave for Jericho,” he instructs, and LEDs flicker as the first wave passes the message on to those outside the elevator walls. “Don’t let anyone stop you.”

The last androids take their place on the elevator. A soft whir sounds. Maglev controls activate, and the elevator begins its long ascent up to the ground level. In the time they have, Connor checks his weapon and preconstructs the likely guard placements they’ll meet upon their arrival. He relays pertinent details to the androids around him, producing a quiet scattering of yellow lights. 

The calculations of how many of their own number will likely be captured or destroyed, he keeps to himself.

His double has settled in not far behind him. Connor resists the urge to glance back, or to relay any guidance to him. There’s a high chance the other RK800 would find it redundant. And if Connor is quietly preconstructing how to optimize his double’s chances of escape… that too, he keeps unspoken.

**▼ Connor-60 △**

Connor checks his weapons. Slides out a magazine, reloading quickly before repeating the task with his second handgun. Then his third. He’s surrounded by a sea of white-clad shapes: eyes bright, temples spinning busy yellow as they glance at one another—and at his copy, just a few units forward. The other Connor's LED is similarly hued, and Connor glares ahead, deleting any urge to _ask_ what they're discussing.

This was the plan. What they’d wanted (what his _predecessor_ had wanted) from the start. There were hundreds of thousands of androids spread throughout the warehouse level: more than enough to wipe out CyberLife’s guards. 

...Or anything else the other RK800 told them to. Connor checks his weapons a second time, mind flashing to the meek submission with which that AP700 had surrendered its gun. He’d wondered then, too: had his predecessor done something to make them so compliant?

(Had it done anything to _him_?)

Unlikely. Outside the obvious, that is. Still, Connor runs a system check. He re-runs, too, the preconstruction he'd made when it first suggested their deal: how _satisfying_ it might be to kill his overbearing, faulty prior self. The data still returns extremely positive.

...Half a million loyal followers might make that hard.

Still, Connor had known that when he stepped into the elevator. (Known too, how convenient it might be for his copy if he _didn’t_ survive this.) If it’s planning for his death, he’d be in at least as risky a position waiting down below. And Connor wants to get _out_.

 _ESCAPE CYBERLIFE TOWER_. He eyes his self-assigned mission, then checks the glowing numbers on the door. _-10. -9. -8._ His predecessor is a potential danger. The humans are a certain one, and by now they’ll know where the deviants are going. Automatic fire pumped into close quarters won't just take down dozens of these deviants within seconds—it might block the rest of them from exiting. Trap them under the weapons’ spray.

 _Exit the line of fire._ _Target emplaced humans._ Connor writes and logs his sub-objectives, glancing over the rows in front and calculating which soon-to-be corpses might offer cover.

_-3._

_-2._

**_-1_** _,_ and gravity lightens, a smooth lurch through his components as the lift slows to a stop. Weapons fill both of Connor’s hands, and he focuses on their weight. On the memory of recoil and the precision ready in his code, just waiting for a target to slot in.

 _Ground level, loading dock_. The doors slide open.

Weapons sound. Androids surge forward. Apparently, the secret instructions had been _‘charge’_. Connor barely has time to squeeze off a pair of shots from his own guns before the mass of white-clad shapes obscures his view. 

The humans waste no time returning fire: a rattling storm that tears a gash of blue into the deviant ranks and fills the air with screams. But for every deviant that falls, a dozen more press past them. Connor finds himself advancing rapidly on sheer momentum, and it’s all he can do to veer leftward, breaking from the crowd.

A pair of humans block his way. Connor drops them in two shots and sprints, jamming one gun back into its holster. A jump, and he snags the edge of a long shipping crate, pulling himself smoothly on top. The structure isn't especially high, but it frames the current battlefield in a direction perpendicular to the human lines. 

This gives an _excellent_ view as the deviant mob hits their emplacements. 

With the exception of his predecessor, this army has no weapons of their own—just numbers, and a sea of grasping, _breaking_ hands. When the first humans begin to fall back, it’s difficult to tell whether it’s a calculated maneuver or just an instinctive reaction to watching their comrades literally torn apart. The screams that choke the air come from both sides this time, and Connor smirks, pushing himself upright.

Unsurprisingly, when faced with charging, murderous machines, humanity's first instinct doesn't seem to be _look up_. As Connor stalks forward, he draws an easy bead on the enemies still crouched behind cover, dispatching them with clean, efficient shots. By the time he's made it halfway down the crate, the second rank of humans is in full retreat. Connor reaches the end and settles into a seated position: one leg dangling over its edge as he leans forward to snipe one target after the next.

His current weapon empties quickly. Connor pauses to reload, gaze drifting across the battlefield to the _other_ grey jacket, in among the white. His predecessor seems to have survived the first attacks unscathed, taking up a position amidst a group of deviants now gathering dead humans’ weapons. 

But as its followers start to exchange shots with the humans, the other RK800’s stare shifts past them: towards a large truck, approaching the battlefield at speed. This time, Connor is included in its broadcasts.

_[They have reinforcements coming. We have more. Keep them pinned until our next group gets here, then launch another assault.]_

Connor snorts mirthlessly. _Someone’s_ enjoying their new authority. But that truck… is a concern.

His eyes narrow on the speeding vehicle, carefully tracking the approach to range. For all his superior position, Connor doesn't have a clear angle on the driver, and the sidearms he’d collected from the guards aren't powerful enough to shoot through the truck’s cab. When he fires, it’s a tight burst: three shots at the side of the front wheel, where the metal rim connects to the sidewall.

The wheel deflates. The truck skids, swiveling sharply as it slows to a stop. Momentum still carries it into the androids’ midst, but now it’s opening at an angle, the _ratatatat_ of automatic fire obscured from his view. _Not_ Connor’s goal, and his mouth twists in annoyance. He slides down from his crate, quick steps circling behind the vehicle—

Connor has a fraction of a second to register the shapes inside. The machinery behind the armored humans. And his own faint, frozen fragment of initializing _fear_. 

Then his code _crackles_. Components surge, warnings displaced to—

**_CRITIC̸̡̧͏A̸̢̧L SYS̸̴̛͜͢T͠҉҉͘Ȩ̷͘͘M̵̨ ̛͜͞F̴̵͞A̡̨I̷̡L̵̸̶̷̨̡̨̨̛̛̕͢͟͟͜͜͢͝͞͏̷̡̧͘̕͟U҉̷̷̶̸̴̴̵̶̶̵̶̡̡̢̨̛̛̛̛̕͘͘͘͢͢͢͢͝͞͞͠͠R̸͏̶͟͢͟͝͞E̷̡̡͟͏̸̴̴̴̶̶̵̷̨̢̢̢̨̨̨̛̕͘͘͘͜͢͢͜͜͞͝͠͠͡͏̸̷̷̶̡̡̧̡̕͘͏̵̸̢̛͘͝҉҉̵̴̴̵̧̡̨̛͘͜—̡̨͘͠҉̵̡̨͘̕͘͜͜͢͟͞͠͞҉̴҉̷̨̡̡̢̧̡̨̛̛̕͡͠͡͏̸̨̢͏̢͠͞͏̵̛͘͟͜͟͜_ **

**_U̡̡͢͝͠҉͏̸̵̴̡̛̕͞͞͡͏̶̶̛͜pl̸̵̸̴̷̶͜͢͞͠͠͏̷̷̶̨̛͝͡͝͏̴̢̧̛͜͠͞͡͏͏͢͏҉̢̨̧͘͘͜͡͞-҉̵͢͏̸̶̸̧̧̧̡̛͘͞͝҉̷̴̨̨̨̛̕̕͟͏̷̶̸̶̶̴̷̨̧̕͜͟͜͢͢͜͟͡͡͝͞͏̨̢͢͠͡͠͝҉̵̸̸̷̸̧̧̨̧̛͞͡͝͝a̸͟҉҉̸̷̴̢̨̛̕̕̕͟͞҉͟͞҉̛͟͜͡d̴̨҉̷̢͟͏̶̷̨̧̛͘͜͟͟͞͝͞͞͏̸̵̴̧̧̡̛͘͟͟͏̵̵̨̛͘͘͘͜͢͜͡͡į̧͜͝͡͏̶͘͏̵̸̸̶̷̷̷̸̨̨̡̕̕̕̕͢͟͢͝͠͡͏̴̵̷̶̵̡̡̨̢̧̡̨͘͘͘͘͘̕̕͜͟͢͞͡͡͝͠n҉̵̸̵̵̴̷̶̡̧̡͘͜͠͞͡g̢͢͏̶͏̴̛̕͟͞͏̷̡͘͜͠͏̡̛̛͡҉҉̡̨̢̧̛̛̕͢͞͏̶̷̸̸̵̧̡͜͢͟͞͞͞͠҉̴̶̢̛͜͜͡͝͠͡͞͏̡͡ ̢̕̕҉̴̢͘͠͠͏͜҉̶̶̶̸̡̨͢҉̷̧҉̢҉̴̸̷̴̶̷̴̴̡̡̧̨̨̛M̶̴̴̢̧̨̨̧̢̢̨̕͘͘̕͘͢͜͟͢͜͠͝͝͠͠͞͝͠͝͞͏̨҉̵̢̨̧̡̛̛͘͘͜͠͝͞͡͝e̴̸̡͢͞҉̸̶̸̶̵̴̷̧̧̢̨̨̧̧̨͘͘͘̕̕͘̕͜͟͢͜͟͟͠͞͞m҉̷̷̴̵͞͏̷̶̶̷̸̢̧̨͟͢͠͞͝҉̷̶̢̧͠҉̴̷̴̷̧̨̨͜͜͝͡҉̷̢͢͟͞҉̸̵̵̡͘͟͟͝҉̧̨̡̕͢ ̵̶̶̡̡̡̨̧̢̛̕͘͘̕̕͢͟͞͝҉̷̶̡̨̕͜͟͡—͠҉̴̷̴̵̧̡̨̢̧̡̨̨̛̛̕͘̕̕͜͟͜͡͞_ **

**_Ę̷̵̴̷̴̵̶̵̸̶̷̷̶̢̢̛͘͘͘̕͘͢͜͢͢͜͜͟͠͞͡͝͡͠͏̴̡̢̨̛͘͟͟͟͡͞͞͞͠҉̶̶̷̶̡̨̡̛̕̕͜͢͝͝҉͏̵̶̵̡̡̛̕̕͘͘͟͟͟͞͠͡͡͠͡͞҉̴̷̸̶̴̷̴̶̷̨̡̢̧̨̨̨̢̛̛̕͢͜͜͟͞͞͡͠͏̷̷̶̡͟͡͡҉͏̷̷̢̨̛͘͘͟͢͢͡͞͡͠R̴̵̡̢͜͢͏͡҉̨̢҉͢҉̷̶̵̶̷̵̶̴̶̢̧̡̢̢̛͘͢͜͜͢͝͡͞͏̧͘̕͞҉̶̵̸̡͡͡͏̵̸̸̧̡̡̧̛̛͘̕͢͜͜͢͝͠͡͠͏̵҉̶̸̴̴̷̶̸̨̢̡̕͠͞͡͏̷̶̛͟҉̴̨̧̛̕͘̕҉̡̡̨͟͜͞͞͠͞͡R̴̸̸̴̡͘͢͠͠͠҉̷̸̷̷̴̶̷̢̢̧̧̨͘̕̕͜͟͜͟͜͡͝͠͞͠͏̴̢͏̵̛͢͝͠͏̴̸̴̵̶̴̶̨̧̧̢̡̡̢̕͟͢͟͜͟͜͠͞͞͡͏̷̵̢̨̛̛͡͠͡͏̶̢̢̛͘̕͜͞҉̴Ơ̸̶̷̕͢͟͡͠͡͡͞͏̷̴̢̕͢͠͏͘҉̸̡̢̕͞͞͠͠͞҉̵̧͘͟͠͠͏͡҉̸̸̸̴̷̸̸̷̵̴̷̸̸̸̡̧̡̧̡̨̡̡̡̡̡̛̛̛͘͘̕͜͟͢͢͢͜͞͞͝͡͞͞͝͠͠͝҉̸̵̷̵̡̡̕҉͝͏̵̕͏̡̢̢̛͟͢͟͝͝͠͏͟͏̸̸̧̢̨̛̛͘͜͟͞͠͠҉̶҉̷̴̢̢̡̧̕̕͟͟͜͟͠҉̴̵̡̡̛͘̕͞͠͝҉̶̴̵̴̸̧͘͏̨̧̨̛͘͠͠͏̡̧͏̵̷̶̢̛̛͘͟͢͜͞͠͞͡҉̧̧̨̨̕͜͠Ŗ̨͘͢͜҉̕̕͘͜͢҉̸̧̡̨̕͘̕͢͜͜͝͏̷̨͘͠͏̢̧҉̶̴̨̕̕͢͢͜͝͏̸̵̴̧̛͘̕͘͟͜͜͟͜҉̸̶̶̴̸̶̨̧̡̡̡̢̡͘͘͘̕͟͢͟͢͜͢͝҉̴̕͘͝҉̸̴̵̵̷̴̶̸̸̢̢̡͘͘̕͘̕͢͢͝͡͝͝͠͠͠͡͠҉̵̸̵̧͜͡͝͏͏̨̛—̧̨̛͢͢͏͜͏̴̷̷̴̸̧̡̧̛͘͟͟͢͜͡͞_ **

An electromagnetic pulse blasts through the loading dock. And, like every other android near the truck, Connor #313 248 317-60 drops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stressing the violence warning for this chapter—we go from smaller conflicts to a larger battle, with brutal methods on both sides.
> 
> Continued thanks go to [I_was_there_for_you](https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_was_there_for_you/pseuds/I_was_there_for_you) for beta'ing, and to the lot of you for reading and commenting!
> 
> Coming up next: a contrast in priorities.


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